Chapter 1
 

It had been a really rough day. The crying children and screaming parents hadn't been the worst of it. You get that at little league games and parent/teacher conferences all the time. What had made this particular day so rough was the silence. It was the kind of catatonic listlessness that could suck the love right out of you as you helplessly watched a young girl teeter on the brink between a life-long series of nightmares and fears or of taking the beginning steps in the long process of recovery. That is, if you can call what a woman's life becomes after being on the receiving end of a brutal sexual assault a 'recovery.' I had looked helplessly into vacant eyes that just yesterday had been full of sparkle and hope and more than a touch of mischief, now dulled without a glimmer of life or vitality.
 

I lay sleepless in bed with Sally, my girlfriend of about 18 months after that seemingly endless night at the hospital, of filling out medical forms, insurance forms, police forms, and so on. Everybody wanted details. I shuddered to think of all the closet perverts who would have access to the lurid details of the gruesome incident. I wondered which of those innocent records would turn up later to continue to ruin her life. Having exhausted all the sheep I could count, I masochistically reviewed the events of the past 12 or so hours as I tried to fall asleep.
 

***
 

Janey had tried to slip into the house unnoticed, home early from her date. She was my girlfriend's daughter and had been her 15th birthday. Sally had reluctantly agreed to let her 'baby' go on her first real date, as her rule had always been no 'couple' dates until Janey was 16 years old. This time there would be no other couple, no chaperones. Just the two kids. There would be others at the party, and then, well, whatever. Sally should have listened to her fears. The date had been a disaster.
 

We were waiting up for Janey to get home. We, Sally, actually, had a surprise birthday gift to give her, along with a cake and a candle. I benefited from this special occasion as well, as I got to spend the night with Sally, an unusual liberty for a weekday. Even after 18 months of serious dating, Sally still held me at arm's length and I normally only saw Janey when our weekend schedules collided at the house. Janey was an active teenager in her first year of High School, popular, pretty, and vivacious. It seemed every second of her life was a flurry of activity, so she was gone much of the time.
 

I sometimes thought that if it weren't for Sally's strong sexual needs, and her own recognition of them, she wouldn't have let anyone - much less me - into her life at all. Don't get me wrong. She was loving, sensual, caring, and, honestly, the best lover I could ever want. Certainly, she was by far the best woman I had ever had the pleasure of loving. Nothing was out of bounds, sexually at least, and things were heading towards a more permanent arrangement. At least, I sincerely hoped so.
 

But there was always a wall that kept me from getting too close or too comfortable, a barrier I couldn't get through, over or around. Sally, although she admitted it was there, simply wouldn't discuss it. The two weeks of gentle, but firm celibacy that were sure to follow each time I brought it up, with the threat of a permanently celibate status if I ever brought it up again, let me know in no uncertain terms that the matter was off limits. I was left with the assumption that someone, probably a man, had hurt her terribly. I was pretty sure I was in the clear, but I was definitely paying the price for the bastard's deed.
 

Hearing the front door open and quietly close, and the 'beep beep' of the alarm being set, we sneaked down the hall bearing our gifts, cake and a lighted candle. We sprang into the teenager's darkened bedroom with shouts of "Surprise!" The strained melody of an off-key duet of "Happy Birthday to You" died out as we both saw her at the same instant. Janey was curled in a tiny ball on the floor at the foot of her bed.
 

I caught the wrapped gift, the cake and the candle that were tossed in my general direction as Sally moved instinctively to hold her daughter. Janey was covered in blood, mostly from the stomach down, the sticky red streaks thicker on the inside of her legs. The bodice of her pretty new party dress was missing a couple of buttons, and the one sleeve I could see was torn. Her birthday dress was ruined.
 

I was already headed down the hall for the telephone when I heard Sally's crisp "Call 9-1-1." I had always admired her for that. Unlike most women I had known, she didn't fall apart in a crisis. She stayed calm, took charge, assessed the situation, made the hard decisions and never doubted them. Even afterwards, she wouldn't doubt the decisions she had made during a crisis. I knew, and more importantly, Janey knew, that Sally would take care of Janey now.
 

Several things went through my head as to what type of accident could have caused her injuries. Call me innocent, ignorant or naïve, but a traumatic rape was not even on my list of possibilities. It just didn't enter my mind. It is not something I would do under any circumstances, and I guess I just expected other civilized men to behave in a similar manner towards women. Especially the women I loved.
 

Sally must have known how I would react to the news she was about to break, as she waited to tell me until we were alone in one of those family rooms they have at hospitals with no windows and only one door. She had found me sitting in those horribly uncomfortable chairs designed to increase patient traffic at chiropractic offices. She stood with her back to the only exit, blocking me in the room. I looked up at her, hoping she was going to rescue me from the mindless fare of cable network news and 5 year old magazines. I had listened through three or four repetitions of the tops news stories of the day. Today's hot news was the annual governor's congress in Washington, D.C. and their concern over the recent sharp rise in missing teenagers, mostly girls, apparently runaways.
 

I had been brutally stunned as Sally quietly informed me that the police were sending over a specialist in sexual assaults to talk with Janey and us about the attack. Janey had been raped. She told me later that my reaction had severely frightened her. She grudgingly admitted that she had underestimated the depth and strength of my feelings. She knew I cared about Janey, and that I would be upset. She was unprepared for my reaction. I was livid, horrified. It was extremely personal. Even more, I was in a murderous rage I couldn't and didn't want to shake off.
 

I now understood justifiable homicide. If I am ever honored to be selected for a jury trial of a parent who killed or maimed the person who had injured their child, I will vote not to convict, but to award a Medal of Honor to that parent.
 

Funny thing, I didn't see red when I had heard what had happened to Janey. I saw nothing. I felt nothing. It was simply as if a switch had been flipped and the whole world had just stopped existing. My only thought was to avenge that innocent little girl's pain. It was the first time Sally had seen me cry, but I don't remember. I'll take her word for it.
 

Sally calmly continued to say that the hospital staff was surprised that most of the blood on Janey had not been her own, but apparently the attacker's. Janey had a few ugly bruises, and had some bleeding from abrasions in and around her vaginal area. She had been brutally penetrated, their words, but there was no semen present. Both the OB/GYN and the emergency physician thought she would heal in time. Physically, anyway.
 

Seeing my blank, uncomprehending stare and my tight grip on the arms of the chair, she told me what she had been able to put together of the events that had transpired on her daughter's birthday.
 

Janey's date, Steven, was a big hotshot football player a couple of years older than Janey. They had met because he was a star player and she was a cheerleader. As a freshman, she was the youngest girl on the squad by two years. She was smart, talented and friendly to everyone. From the first day of school, Janey had been besieged with requests for dates, which she had graciously turned down. She knew her Mom's rule.
 

Although she had to refuse to go on the dates, Janey had that gracious ability to made each of her suitors feel glad just to know her. She somehow sensed the emotional trauma a rejection could cause a teenage male ego and she let them know that she was the one who was privileged to have been asked out. The guys she turned down liked her more after than before. She was developing quite a following for a freshman. She was levelheaded about the attention, not what you would call boy-crazy, although there were some boys that made her heart beat a just little faster when they called the house. However, all her other girlfriends were seriously infected with that peculiar teenage disease, and Janey sort of went along.
 

Peer pressure is a terrible force in a teen's life, and, because of her status as a cheerleader, Janey was 'expected' to date, among other things, as we were to discover shortly. When Steven asked her out for a special birthday party in her honor, she felt not only honored, but somewhat obligated to ask her Mom for permission to go. She and her Mom had a long-standing agreement that Janey would not date 'solo' until she was 16, but her persistence wore down Sally's resistance. She was allowed to go this one time, with the explicit understanding that this was an exception, a one time only deal.
 

The date had started innocently. It was a party, supposedly in her honor at the head cheerleader's home, whose parents were conveniently 'out.' The punch, later discovered to be spiked, had flowed freely. It was only because of Janey's nervousness that she had only had one glass. Steven had quite a few, as had the rest of the revelers.
 

Because it was a school night, curfew for Janey was 11:00 p.m. and they left the party about 9:00. Steven had driven to a popular make-out spot, deserted because it was a weekday, and had tried to kiss her. At first she was flattered, thrilled that the popular older boy she admired was paying her all this attention. However, when he made a rough grab at her breasts, bruising the tender flesh and drunkenly tearing her sleeve, she told him to stop and that she wanted to go home. Now. Janey was frightened, but not stupid, and several things about the evening just didn't add up. Suddenly realizing the whole evening had been a sham to get her alone with this boy-turned-animal added to the guilt she felt afterward.
 

Surprisingly, the boy had backed off right away, started the car and left the make-out area. She relaxed just a bit, thinking she may have been wrong about him and the odd events at the party. She always thought the best about people and she gave him the benefit of the doubt. The damage to her dress was minimal and no one would see her breasts. She was already beginning to put this evening behind her.
 

Janey and her Mom live out in the country a ways, close enough to be convenient, far enough away to be left alone by all but the most determined salesmen. On the road to the house, just before the turnoff into the long driveway, there is a dark stretch of road that parallels the river. All along this stretch there are private, isolated spots where you can pull just a few feet off the road, and your car is all but hidden from passersby. Steven pulled into one of those suddenly, and turned to his surprised passenger.
 

He hadn't even waited for her to resist before he slapped her several times across the face. Whether the hard blows stunned her or knocked her out wasn't clear. The next thing she remembered, she was flat on her back on the ground next to the car with her party dress bunched up under her armpits. Her bra had been pulled down around her waist, the straps ripped off. The force of pulling it down had dug the straps deeply into her shoulders before they snapped, bruising the tender skin.
 

She felt pain. Steven was mauling and biting her tits, causing terrible pains to shoot from the sensitive organs. There was a particularly sharp rock poking her in her left shoulder blade and another one right in the small of her back. With his additional 240 pounds pressing down on top of her, the rocks were really digging in.
 

The most intense pain came from between her legs. With no preliminaries, Steven had ripped her panties down her legs and shoved his prick into her virgin pussy. The damage done was not due to his size. He had only been 3, maybe 4 inches long when erect and not real thick - a true 'pencil dick.' His penis size didn't match his ego and it may have contributed to his frustrations with his life. Never having learned to deal with his own inadequacies, he covered them by bullying people and forcing himself on others.
 

The damage had been due to Janey being tight and dry. His angle had been off, as well as his aim, plus he had used excessive force when he finally did manage to find the virgin mouth of her vagina. The OB/GYN estimated he must have made 10-15 forceful stabs before finding the hole and gaining entrance, as Janey was bruised all over, including the area around her anus. Apparently, the boy's frustrations had increased to a frantic level, and when he found an opening or anything closely resembling one, he rammed his prick in with all of his considerable strength. I shudder to think what would have happened to her had she been conscious and moving about.
 

Sally had talked with Janey about sex, and boys, and the difference between love and sex. She had also included talks about rape, so Janey figured out pretty quick what was going on. Like her mother, she kept her wits about her, even in this terrifying situation.
 

In spite of the pain she was in, she first took stock of her surroundings. Turning her head to the side, she could see the open door of the car, the dome light casting a dim illumination on the crime scene. She could see her torn panties hanging like a trophy on the rear view mirror, and, strangely, his slacks and shorts folded neatly on the car seat.
 

A desperate plan formed in her mind. Again, like her mother, she made a decision and implemented the plan. She began 'ooohhhing' and 'aaaaahhing' in his ear. Her hips, painful though it was for her, thrust up to meet his. Although she had never fucked before, she responded with the natural rhythms of a fertile female in heat. The blood oozing from the tears in her vagina lubricated her brutal mating with the rapist somewhat, convincing him she was responding to his efforts.
 

When he saw what she was doing, he had laughed at her, thinking she was responding to his rape like the slut he thought all women were. He said as much, calling her a slut, a whore and a bitch. His callous words would hurt her more and for a longer time than the injuries he was inflicting, but right then they steeled her resolve to go through with her plan.
 

With much panting and moaning, Janey convinced him to go at her from behind. Again, it wasn't clear if she was offering him her asshole to cum in so she wouldn't get pregnant, or simply to do it 'doggie style.' It wasn't important. She just knew she needed him to get off her and let her get up for a split second.
 

He let her stand up and she wasted no time putting her plan into action. Sally had dragged me to the occasional Friday night high school ball game where I had seen Janey doing the energetic cheerleading routines, jumping around excitedly in her short skirt and tight sweater. I had seen how high she could kick, practically doing the splits standing up, her foot ending well above her head. Most guys underestimate just how much energy goes into cheerleading, how toned and muscled those young women have to be to perform at that level for two to three hours straight. I had seen just a few of the hours of practice Janey and the others put in when I had spent the occasional weekend at Sally's. Steven had not.
 

As soon as Janey got up, she stepped up to him, making it look as if she wanted to kiss him on the cheek before getting down on her hands and knees. She leaned her full firm breasts into him during the kiss, pushing him off balance a bit. Instinctively, he steadied himself against this unexpected, but lovely pressure. His legs automatically spread to about shoulder width apart to keep his balance. That was the opening she needed. Like most men dealing with an angry woman, Steven never knew what hit him.
 

Janey turned as if to face away from him, appearing to be getting down into position to continue fucking. Then suddenly, she wheeled and with all the force in her long, tight legs and with all the murderous anger in her heart, she brought her foot up into his groin. Straight legged. Her aim was dead on, just slightly to the right of center. He must have lifted several inches off the ground.
 

Janey said there was no sound. He did not cry out. The only sounds in the still night air, other than his escaping breath, was the squish of a mashing testicle and the soft pop of a ruptured penis. He dropped like a stone where he stood.
 

Janey then did something that amazed every adult, other than Steven's parents, who heard of it. Rather than running away, leaving him there to bleed to death, she got his cell phone and dialed 9-1-1. On the play-back of the tape, you could hear Janey, who didn't identify herself, calmly tell the operator exactly where the injured person was and the extent of his injuries. After the call she rolled up his slacks and shorts as a pillow for his head, walked a short distance away to where she could see but not be seen, waited until she saw the ambulance arrive, then finished walking the short distance home.
 

I continued to stare wordlessly at Sally as her tale came to a close. I had slowly come to my senses somewhere in the middle when she had said Janey would be OK physically. The physical injuries to the boy mitigated some of my murderous rage towards him. I no longer wanted to kill him, but I seriously resented his one surviving testicle. Even one ball was too much for that raping bastard. The thought flickered through my mind about how much it would take to bribe the surgeon to make a tiny slip with the scalpel and finish the job. In talking with the surgeon later, a woman with a teenaged daughter of her own, she admitted she was sorry she had not known the details of his 'accident' prior to her repair work on him in the OR. She had been told it was an auto accident. She coldly admitted she would have done it for nothing. Off the record, of course.
 

As I watched Sally finish telling me the events of the night, I became aware of a dangerous level of emotional tension inside her, bordering on exhaustion. Mentally chastising myself for my incredible thoughtlessness and selfishness, I began to consider how she had to be feeling. She was ready to split apart with fear and anger, but felt she had to be strong and hold together for Janey. She couldn't let go until Janey was out of danger, or until she could hand off responsibility to someone else. I felt the most important thing I could do for both of them was to focus on Sally and try to ease her pain and anguish. I held my arms open to her, inviting her into them.
 

Sally looked up at me, and I realized then that she had not looked me in the eye throughout the whole recitation. As I looked into those beautiful blue eyes, I saw her pain and anger, which I expected to see. I also saw hate. It was a bitter, acrid hate inclusive of all males, including me. It took a supreme effort, but I didn't flinch when I realized her state of mind nor did I take back the open-armed invitation of a hug. I was well aware I had just invited a madwoman bent on killing or seriously hurting something or someone to come stand next to my unprotected body.
 

Sally didn't move for a long moment, leaving us frozen in that estranged tableau. Then, with a small step, she moved in my direction. Hoping she wouldn't notice, I took a small step towards her, closing my legs in the process and turning my hips slightly to the side. I wasn't sure how far that 'like mother, like daughter' thing went. It wouldn't protect my privates against a hard driving knee, but it was better than singing soprano. Permanently.
 

Continuing to glare hatefully into my eyes, she small-stepped into my arms, ending with her face upturned. It was not a face I particularly wanted to kiss at that moment, but it was definitely one that needed it. As I lowered my defenseless face towards that venomous expression, I mentally pictured my lips being shredded by those fine sharp white teeth that had teasingly tormented me so many times during sex play. Call me a fool, but I ignored warning signs that would have made a sane man make out a Last Will and Testament. I skated out onto the thin ice with abandon. Without hesitation. Hell, I was in love with the woman.
 

Miraculously, I felt no immediate pain. I thought maybe my senses were dulled by the lateness of the hour and the uncomfortable hospital chairs. I was resigned to being the punching bag for her to vent her anger, and I knew she was capable of doing almost anything in her current frame of mind. Her quivering body was as tense as a bowstring as my arms slowly enfolded her to hold her gently, but firmly against my racing heart. It felt as if I was holding an atomic bomb, and I was probably about as safe. I put my body at her disposal for her to vent her anger on as she saw fit.
 

My lips lightly brushed her dry ones. That kiss was not in the least bit sexual. Too much fear, pain and sorrow were around us right now. I was simply making myself a sacrificial offering on the altar of her vengeance. Believe me, it was a ritual of trust. Hopefully, it would be a bloodless ritual.
 

Warm, wet, salty. I tasted it tentatively. Not blood. Only slightly relieved, I opened my tightly clenched eyes, apparently having squeezed them shut in anticipation and preparation of bearing much pain. Her eyes were closed, too. And leaking. Her tears began as a trickle, but soon flooded her face and my chest. No sobs, no hysteria. Just tears. My tears mingled with hers.
 

I don't know how long we stood like that, but the police officer in charge of the investigation finally found us to let us know they had been able to corroborate Janey's account of the evening's events. Startled, we asked why they would need to be corroborated. He filled us in on the latest sick twist in the story.
 

Steven's parents, his father a big-shot lawyer, his mother high on the social ladder and forever clawing her way higher, had filed 'Assault and Battery' charges against Janey, even before they knew the details of what had happened. They were insistent upon filing them and wanted Janey arrested and held in the juvenile section county jail. The police were helpless to do otherwise and were going to arrest her until they found Janey's blood at the scene, right where she said the rape had happened. With that, and some other things, that supported her story, the cops held off.
 

Tests showed that Steven's blood alcohol level was over the legal limit for an adult, way over for an underage driver. Testimony from witnesses at the faux-party unknowingly supported Janey. The partygoers made their damaging statements thinking Steven had 'scored' with her. The torn panties on the mirror were identified by them as blue before anyone at the party should have known. Actually, the partygoers had made snide remarks about Janey 'crying rape' even before our 911 call had been made. Alcohol and lies don't mix.
 

His parents had weakened under the weight of the evidence, but the clincher was when the surgeon sewing him up pulled a rather large chunk of foreign tissue out of his piss hole. Tissue typing proved it was a piece of her cherry. The force with which he had rammed into her had shoved a torn fragment of her hymen way up inside of his ureter. As he hadn't ejaculated, it was still there.
 

There was no way it wasn't rape. There was no way it wasn't self-defense on her part. There was no way their spoiled little boy wasn't going to jail, with or without Janey's testimony. The pretty-faced 18-year-old pencil-dick was going to make someone a nice 'girlfriend' at the State Penitentiary. The rookie officer, apparently having experienced the father in court on previous cases, seemed smugly pleased with that part of the outcome.
 

The ride home in the wee hours was quiet. Sally bundled Janey into the house, a hot bath and bed, seemingly in one continuous motion. She never left Janey alone, but didn't crowd her. It wasn't until Janey was soundly asleep that Sally crawled into bed beside me.
 

Like I said, it had been a rough day.
 

Chapter 2
 

If I thought the night before had been rough, the next couple of days made what happened then almost seem like a vacation. Almost. Sally was so preoccupied with Janey she could think of nothing else. Janey, for her part, apparently couldn't think at all. She wouldn't react, wouldn't talk, and wouldn't move. She just lay there. Sally was able to clean her gently every day, although only behind a locked door, and gently force a few bites of food down her, but other than that, nothing.
 

I was beginning to be very afraid for Sally. Hell, I was afraid for both of them. I was able, after a couple of days, to spell Sally on her vigil beside Janey's bed, but only after I promised to sit out of Janey's direct line of sight. Sally was adamant about that. If Janey woke up, I was to get Sally immediately and not let Janey see me.
 

I didn't fully understand it, but apparently it was possible for Janey to transferred her hate for Steven and what he had done to her to all things male. Including me. It hurt me, terribly. Not as much as she was hurting, obviously, but I couldn't understand how I, who cared for her and loved her, could be lumped in with all the rest.
 

That first night I sat in for Sally passed uneventfully. Janey didn't stir once. The doctor had been there earlier in the day, along with a rape counselor, and both Janey and Sally were resting comfortably with the aid of mild sedatives. It was a long night, and, I am not ashamed to admit, I took advantage of the solitude and darkness and I shed more than a few tears over the shattered girl.
 

The next day I asked the counselor if it would be OK to talk to Janey. Since she wasn't responding very much, and would be sedated anyway, would it help or hurt? The harried lady shrugged and said it probably couldn't hurt. As long as she didn't react violently to the sound of my voice, it might actually help. I thought that an odd statement, but I decided to try to talk to Janey that night.
 

That night I sat by her bed, a little closer than the night before. I started speaking very softly, hoping not to startle her, which I didn't. I talked to her about lots of things. I tried to go through every memory I had of her, every time we had together. I told her what she was wearing, who she had been with and what was said. I told her of the pride and admiration I felt when I watched her perform at her games. I recounted each and every game and competition where I had seen her. Then I started going through the meals we had shared. And so on. I was amazed at all the details I could recall about this girl I had watched grow into a young woman.
 

Towards morning, after about 7-8 hours of speaking quietly to her, I sensed a change in her. At first I thought she had moved and was about to go get her Mom, but then I noticed she was still asleep. She seemed to be breathing easier, but how I would I know that? I didn't analyze it a lot, but somehow, I instinctively knew that Janey was going to be OK. It was like I could sense her feelings or her aura or some shit. Weird, I know.
 

It was during this time of slow recovery that all Hell broke loose. The news of Janey's incident made the local, state, and eventually the national news. It hit the national news wires after the half-assed local police investigation accidentally found that this had been an organized plot involving several other students. Due to the political connections of some of the alleged participant's parents, the local police panicked and the FBI was called in. They used the excuse that this had been an attempted kidnapping.
 

What the local police had uncovered was that it had been a contest for money. The prize was several thousands of dollars, but with the money these kids had, that was secondary. Winning, at any price, was number one. Apparently, all the male athletes - the jocks - put $100 a piece into a pot at the beginning of each school year. It was not an option. No one was forced to participate in the actual contest, but they didn't stay healthy very long if they didn't contribute. The first jock to fuck all 12 of that year's cheerleaders won the pot.
 

Janey, being a freshman, was the only conquest left for two of the guys, one of whom was Steven. The other boy had been making considerable headway with Janey at school, actually going through the motions of courting and wooing her. I had heard his name mentioned in reverent tones at the dinner table, and a telephone call from him was a reason for excited tittering between the mother and daughter. His apparent progress with the beautiful girl had infuriated Steven, prompting him to set up the birthday party scam for Janey.
 

When pressed by the professionals at the FBI, Steven cracked like a true wuss, and gave up all the names of the organizers and the participants. He even had a list on his computer complete with names, dates and if the event had been 'voluntary' or 'involuntary'. There were a remarkable number of involuntary notations, e.g. 'rapes', and that had caused an even greater uproar, as most had never been reported. The few that had been reported to the local police or school counselors had been dismissed as post-coital regrets.
 

But it was not just the guys involved. There was jealousy on the part of some of the girls that prompted their participation, too. Steven implicated three of the cheerleaders for setting up the party, providing the booze, and verifying what color panties Janey had been wearing that night. The girl's panties were considered to be proof in the case of an involuntary score, and they had been pretty sure Janey was not going to participate voluntarily. So knowing what color or pattern of panties she was wearing was key to verifying the 'trophy' was from the victim. One cheerleader had walked into the guest bathroom at the party when Janey was peeing, her panties down around her ankles. Janey was sure the door had been locked, but, as the girl had 'oops'ed her way back out of the bathroom, she had just guessed the lock was broken and had let it pass.
 

There were arrests and expulsions, some permanent. They involved most of the popular kids, the 'in' crowd. The 'untouchables' had been touched. Hard. Most of them blamed Janey, and they were bitter. Most of them wouldn't graduate, at least, not from this High School.
 

Then, to make a bad situation a catastrophe, someone, probably some low-level employee from the hospital, had leaked Steven's hospital chart to a sleazy tabloid. There wasn't a male in America who didn't wince just a little when his injuries were described in graphic detail. The tabloid shouted it out in full color, with charts and graphs showing the force of impact required to do what had been done to his popped testicle and ruptured penis by her solid kick to his groin. He got a lot of sympathy from that report, as if his injuries somehow made the two of them even. A surprising number of females were sympathetic as well.
 

As more news leaked and broke over the weekend, it grew rapidly into a media spectacle. Janey had withdrawn into herself and didn't know any of this was going on. But Sally knew and I knew. Sally had to take care of Janey and couldn't deal with this. Me? I got mad, then I started kicking ass and taking names. Literally.
 

We disconnected all the phones but the one in the back guestroom after several threats had been made on Janey's life, not to mention the countless obscene phone calls. The list of the names we collected from the Caller ID on that phone included some very interesting ones. The calls were all recorded on a system similar to the 9-1-1 calls. The FBI was doing voiceprints and matching some surprising names to the voices. Heads were going to roll, some from very high places.
 

Considering several of the worst calls originated from the telephones of those whose job it was to 'protect and serve' us all, it was a good thing the house was set well back from the road, and had a well-defined perimeter fence around the large property. The governor, a personal friend of mine, brought in the National Guard to 'help' the local police keep an eye on the property after I shared some of the selected names on my Caller ID list with him. The new, heavily armed troops added to the complicated chain-of-command and jurisdictional issues, not to mention the feeding frenzy of the so-called news media, but the phone calls did quiet down a bit.
 

Then some asshole leaked Janey's name and address to the press along with a home video showing her doing one of her trademark kicks. Overnight, she became known as "The high-kicking cheerleader" in the media. Her picture and that video clip was played prominently at the top, bottom and in the middle of every broadcast hour, usually accompanied by the music from "The Nutcracker Suite." The heartless jackals were at our gates within minutes of the leak. News, tabloids, paparazzi, women's rights groups, protesters, spectators, helicopters, bullhorns, and, believe it or not, a burning cross. The death-threats on the telephone had been easier to deal with.
 

Sally came apart. I went ballistic. Not one to sit idly by and watch this thing destroy these two women's lives, I made a couple of calls to some very high-priced lawyers in New York, old friends of my father's from his law practice. Every, and I mean every, last fucking one of the registered media in the entire nation received a registered letter from that law firm. The letter explained exactly what would happen and how much it would cost them personally and corporately if Janey's name, likeness, or personal information were broadcast, printed, or hinted after their receipt of that registered letter. Even if it was by mistake or oversight.
 

The letter explained this was not a matter of censorship and that they were free to report on the events of this case, the same as any other similar case. The girl was, however, a minor with legal rights to anonymity. She had committed no crime, was not charged with one, would not be charged with one, and wished simply to be left alone. To help them remember, the letter also mentioned several similar cases that had not made headlines, but about which the entire media industry was aware, where this particular law firm had won huge awards from overly-aggressive 'news' organizations.
 

You could tell almost to the minute when the letters hit the corporate offices of the major news media and their legal departments confirmed the essential elements of the legal situation. The smarter legal guys probably pointed out that because of the warning letter, any infraction would probably result in an award far surpassing the previous multi-million dollar amounts. Suddenly, everybody wanted to be somewhere else. In a hurry. Watching their remote broadcast vehicles scramble to leave the front gates reminded me of the Keystone Cops movies.
 

There were reports of several stations turning off their signals that day in the middle of a broadcast story, leaving several minutes of "Technical Difficulty" screens. Of course, a couple of hard-liners didn't listen, including one sensationalistic talk show host, and surprisingly, one major network. They all went bankrupt from the lawsuits, paying for the legal expenses, and it didn't help when the FCC immediately rescinded their broadcast licenses, effectively stopping any further repetition of Janey's name in the news. The other news agencies were very circumspect after that. It's nice to have a sister who just happens to be a Federal Judge in Washington, D.C.
 

I think how I handled that media mess managed to impress Sally, who saw me from a whole new perspective. Sharing your Rolodex is not something you normally do when dating, even after 18 months. The restored calm around the house and city allowed her to gather her wits back together, and she was able to re-focus on helping her daughter get well.
 

I continued to sit with Janey at night. After the first 3 nights things had gotten pretty routine. I sat, I talked, she slept. The next night looked to be going pretty much the same, except I was getting tired. The emotional drain was taking its toll on all of us, even me. The evening started out with me reminiscing. I covered the same topics over and over every night. I figured, what the Hell, she's asleep anyway.
 

I don't remember dozing off, but I awoke with a start. And saw Janey lying there, staring at me. Worse, I was touching her. More accurately, she was holding onto my finger with her hand. I had been having vivid dreams, of happy times, but always under a cloud or shadow.
 

"Oh, you're awake. I'll go get your Mom."
 

In response, I got a quick shake of her head and a tightened grasp on my finger. She apparently didn't want me to go. I wracked my groggy brain for what to do.
 

"OK. Do you need anything? A drink of water or something to eat?"
 

Another quick shake.
 

"I'm sorry to wake you up. Was I snoring?" I tried a feeble laugh, but Janey just kept looking at me. Now that I looked closer, I noticed she had a wary look on her face. Not knowing what else to do, I just sat quietly with her. It was still early, Sally wouldn't be awake for hours.
 

"I thought you were mad at me, but you're not, are you." It was a statement.
 

Her first words to me in nearly a week. I nearly fell out of the chair. "Why would I be mad at you?"
 

"Dunno. But you were mad, really mad, at someone, weren't you?"
 

I thought back on the idiots that had surrounded the house and hounded Sally and I. Janey had been out of it during that time. How could she have known?
 

"Some people were bothering us a little. They're gone now," I responded.
 

A while later, "Do you really like that blue outfit I wore to school last week? I think it makes me look old."
 

Now I was really confused. In all my ramblings to her the past four nights I had avoided any reference to her appearance, or being sexy, or her body. That was on the advice of the rape counselor. She mentioned that rape victims take a tremendous blow to their self-esteem and that I shouldn't talk about her appearance or anything to do with her body.
 

However, I had been dreaming of her in that blue outfit just before I woke up. It was her dark blue blazer with a matching pleated skirt that made her look like a smart young professional businesswoman. I had had a dream of her standing in front of a crowd, giving a speech or lecture. What I remember was feeling proud of her and everything she had accomplished. I had never talked to her about it, though.
 

"Oh, was I talking in my sleep?"
 

She gave me that puzzled look, like I didn't know something I should have, that look teenagers reserve for their ignorant parents and siblings, then said, "Well, kind of."
 

Janey sat up in bed, propping her pillows behind her. I didn't try to help her, as that would have meant touching her. As normal as she sounded, I didn't think she was ready for that. Unusual for her, she pulled the covers clear up to her chin, covering her body completely. When she was settled in an upright position, she did slip her hand out of the covers and recapture my finger, so I stayed where I was. We didn't talk anymore. We just sat in silence, each of us with our own thoughts.
 

Sally found us like that in the morning, and immediately burst into tears. They were happy ones, though.